


Tongue Impressions

by annabeth



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: I hope ashii agrees with me, M/M, at least I think it's happy, birthday fic, explicit underage sex, kink is a surprise, slight angst, tipsy fucking, with a happy(?) ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 12:59:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14545272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/annabeth
Summary: Maybe it's just because Viktor is lonely, and bone-deep exhausted.





	Tongue Impressions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashiiblack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashiiblack/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY ASHII!

Yuri Plisetsky is a terror, and he wants everyone to know it, apparently. This is the conclusion Viktor comes to when he comes back to his hotel room in Sochi and can't find his keycard; the door opens, and Yuri is standing there in nothing but a short hotel robe, holding what looks like something alcoholic from the minibar.

It's on the tip of Viktor's tongue to scold, to ask what he's doing with the drink—has to be vodka—in his hand, or why he's half-naked, or maybe more importantly, _what he's doing in Viktor's hotel room_.

It's probably a huge tactical error when, afraid someone will walk past and see them, he quickly pushes Yuri backwards and closes the door, leaning against it, facing the door, breath heaving. Or maybe it's just that Viktor gave up a long time ago on the idea of being a _good man_ , because he's lonely and bone-deep exhausted by everything in his life. Yet somehow, the blond aesthetic of Yuri, standing with his milk-pale skin, has dug a furrow of longing into Viktor's heart.

"Don't just stand there, old man," Yuri snaps, jabbing at the base of his spine with the liquor bottle. "I won a gold medal, and I want a reward."

"A reward?" Viktor asks weakly, but now, oh _now_ , he knows what he means. Yuri's Instagram—filled with decadent, risque images for a fifteen-year-old—had demanded the "D" if he won the Junior Grand Prix. Yakov had nearly lost the top of his head over that one, making Yuri take it down.

But not before Yuri had made sure Viktor had seen it. At the time, Viktor hadn't realized…

"You meant _me_?" he asks in astonishment, finally turning to look. He almost immediately wishes he hadn't. Yuri has dispensed with the robe and is lounging against one wall like he's trying to hold it up with that stick-slender body, its white miles of skin on display—except the ruby-pink cock that's jutting out, bigger than Viktor would have expected—big enough to make Viktor swallow convulsively.

He tells himself he shouldn't be looking at Yuri's cock, that Yuri is much too young for him, but that expression on Yuri's face? It says he knows exactly what he wants—and what buttons to push to get it.

"Of course I meant you, idiot," Yuri says with a roll of his bright green eyes. "Did you think I meant Yakov?"

That was probably supposed to smart, but honestly, they _both_ shudder at the thought. Yuri takes a long, long drink of the liquor, his throat working—Viktor's own throat goes dry in response—and sets it down, clearly empty.

"Are you drunk? I'm not going to—"

"It's water, idiot," Yuri says. Viktor himself is slightly tipsy from champagne at the banquet. He has a semi from the Japanese skater humping up against his leg. And Yuri Plisetsky looks rumpled and oh-so-beautiful outlined by the background of Viktor's hotel room.

"Okay, first of all," Viktor says, waving a finger at Yuri, "I'm not going to fuck you, bec—"

"Why _not_?" Yuri asks, sounding almost like a whine. "I arranged this all perfectly. You can't turn me down now." He licks his palm and slowly slides it up the length of his dick. Viktor's eyes, transfixed, follow the sight from root to tip, and back down. It's like watching ping pong, or tennis; Viktor's eyes can't keep away from that lust-inspiring, illicit movement.

"Because you're too young," Viktor says, proud of himself. Then Yuri takes a step closer. "Ah, but, I _can_ give you something else. Lie down on the bed, your face against the pillow, on your stomach. And raise your hips."

Yuri, the epitome of beauty and grace on the ice, is graceless when he plants himself on Viktor's bed. He peers over his raised shoulder and says,

"I want your fucking cock, asshole."

"Calling someone names isn't the way to get what you want," Viktor says in admonishment. Yuri doesn't look particularly chastened by that. Cheeky little brat—he must have known that if he broke into Viktor's hotel room, he'd get _something_. "And you're too small."

"Viktor," Yuri says, using his name for the very first time all night, "You forget I've seen you naked. Your dick isn't going to be that diffi—"

"You've never seen me hard," Viktor counters. "What have you used before? Your fingers? Yura, I'm gonna be substantially, ah, _more_ than your fingers. No. We do this my way, or not at all."

But Yuri slowly swivels his hips, making his round, tautly muscled ass sway invitingly, and Viktor feels some of his own good intentions melting away. He'd planned nothing more than a little light teasing—maybe a fingertip circling a hole that, as Yuri pulls his cheeks apart, Viktor can see is as ruby-pink as his dick—or maybe a spanking, for his damnable impertinence, but fuck, how can he—?

Yuri rolls over. He lets his legs fall open.

"Come here, Vitya," he murmurs, suddenly so seductive, his tone so dulcet, that Viktor is moving onto the bed, covering his naked body with his, still in his suit—shit, he's gonna get precome streaks all over his jacket and trousers—and flattening Yuri's body into the mattress, pushing his skull down into the feathery pillow, as he claims those soft, pretty lips. He wasn't—he didn't _intend_ to do it, to kiss lips as ruby-pink as other areas of his body, but Yuri had sounded so sweet—like chocolate—that Viktor had to have a taste.

Yuri is a more experienced kisser than Viktor is expecting. His mouth parts just enough and he tastes like champagne, and something sweeter. Maybe it _is_ chocolate. His tongue flickers against the contours of Viktor's mouth; dances along the edges of Viktor's tongue. He kisses like a butterfly's wings fluttering, quick, urgent, yet not desperate. So utterly different from what Viktor would have thought, from someone with the fiery passionate temper Yuri possesses.

Yuri pushes him back after a few seconds. "If I wanted kisses, I could get those anywhere," he says, and now that Viktor's had a taste—just a fucking _taste_ —he's insanely jealous; he has to know who Yuri's been kissing before him. But Yuri forestalls the question by distracting him.

He arches his back a little, lifting his pelvis from the bed, and rolls his hips until his swollen, ruby-pink cock juts up hard into Viktor's abdomen. Yuri moans; Viktor feels his thoughts scatter like leaves on the wind.

" _Fuck_ me, Vitya," Yuri says on the trail of another moan. Viktor can't—he won't—but he does put both hands under that ass, tightening his grip on the thick muscle, and yank Yuri upwards even as he moves down. He brings Yuri to his mouth and they both gasp when his tongue licks down behind Yuri's balls, the soft stretch of his perineum, and behind. When it flutters against that delicious, tight little opening.

"This is better," Viktor murmurs against his skin; he knows the vibrations of his voice will be felt through his lips against Yuri's hole, communicating without words to Yuri's nerve endings.

"Mm, oh, fuck," Yuri says, and Viktor can see and feel the bed move as Yuri scrabbles against it, clutching sheets and pillows in his hands as Viktor breathes gently, softly, over the wet patch he left where Yuri's body is the tightest little furl of flesh. He licks Yuri again, still soft, still only a slight pressure, until Yuri's entire body contracts and spasms with an unspoken need for _more _.__

__Then Viktor gives it to him in earnest: he swipes his tongue firmly over Yuri's hole, swirling it around the rim, and grazes his teeth oh-so-lightly over it until the flesh swells enticingly in his mouth._ _

__He learned this—and learned he _loved_ this—from Chris back when they were both teenagers learning their own version of sex ed on each other, and now he puts all of his practical knowledge to good use. He works his tongue teasingly into the tiny opening, widening it with each pass, until Yuri is writhing, his hands yanking the sheets from the bed, his cock dripping down its length, his hole clenching down on the tip of Viktor's tongue._ _

__He pulls back a hairsbreadth. "Yura," he says. "Try to relax a little."_ _

__Yuri can't relax his whole body—it's too tense from Viktor's ministrations—but he manages to breathe through a spasm until his hole flutters and Viktor nudges it open with his tongue, plunging deeply inside._ _

__Yuri's body is soft, so silken-warm, against his tongue, and damp with Viktor's saliva. He begins to fuck him with his tongue, in-and-out, in-and-out, until Yuri's mumbling incoherently in Russian interspersed with curses he's learned from around the world._ _

__Viktor settles to his enjoyment, loving the heat of Yuri, the gentle rhythmic motion of his body as it undulates on the bed, the tiny flutters of his muscle as Viktor probes it and curls his tongue inside. He pauses in his tongue-fucking to lave it again with saliva and sensation, and Yuri's little rim is so puffy and inflamed now, probably more ruby-red than pink; the skin warmed by his mouth._ _

__He can feel the heat of it against his lips as he presses an open-mouthed kiss over it, sealing his lips around it. Yuri gasps and bucks, and Viktor can sense he's close. He dips his tongue back inside and wiggles it around, lacking finesse now in favor of urgency, until one of Yuri's hands comes up from the bed, plunges into his hair, and twists and tangles the strands—Viktor stabs his tongue inside and sucks at his hole—Yuri's fingers tighten in his hair, yanking hard as his body bows off the bed, and he _comes_ , screaming curses._ _

__"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Yuri is still howling when Viktor lets his lower body drop back to the mattress. His cheeks, usually pale as streaks of fluffy clouds in the sky, are reddened beautifully with a post-orgasmic flush. He's never been that flushed in Viktor's presence, not even when he's been practicing a difficult routine._ _

__Viktor goes up on his elbows, his arms bracketing those oh-so-slender hips. He regards Yuri, his own lips swollen from the experience._ _

__"Happy?" he asks, and Yuri fists his fingers tighter in his hair._ _

__"Fuck me," he demands, but his voice is weak as the threads of his orgasm still flow through him. "Vitya."_ _

__"Maybe when you're older," Viktor says, though he suspects by then Yuri's crush will have changed; that he'll have moved onto someone else. The thought makes him inexplicably sad._ _

__"Do I—"_ _

__"No," Viktor says. "You'll be quite happy to know I ruined my trousers by making you come." He thinks Yuri is about to ask, even as his hand loosens and he flops down to the bed, but then Yuri obviously puzzles out what he means. "If you don't mind…"_ _

__He goes into the bathroom to wash up his own sticky, spent cock, and by the time he comes out, now as nude as Yuri, Yuri's curled up on his side on Viktor's bed, sound asleep. Viktor watches him for a long moment, debating waking him and sending him back to Yakov, where he belongs._ _

__But he can't bring himself to do it. Maybe when Yuri wakes up, he'll let Yuri show him just what he knows about these things by practicing on Viktor's dick. Maybe Viktor isn't the man he should be._ _

__But as he climbs up behind Yuri, spooning him gently, he knows he's a lot less lonely._ _

____

THE END.


End file.
